One Night Of Consequences Collection. Annie West
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Her mouth opened on a soundless sigh of pleasure, her head tossed back, her world reduced to this moment. This man who knew her body better than she knew it herself.
“About that love under the beautiful sky…” she said, dropping a kiss on his chin, his brow, his nose.
“But of course,” he said, between plucking kisses, his voice deep and ragged and oh, so sexy. “Whatever the lady wants.”
His heart, she thought. To love and be loved. Now. Forever.
Was that too much to ask? She knew the answer. Knew that it was impossible with him.
His hands shifted to her back, gliding from her behind to her shoulders, kneading the taut muscles in both with such erotic precision she moaned with pleasure and awakened need. Live for the moment, she thought. That was all she could do—all she wanted to do right now.
“I want you,” she said, her mouth lowering to his.
She got a fleeting glimpse of longing in his eyes before he jerked his gaze toward the sea. Before she could register that something was wrong, he pushed her down and lunged across her body.
“Sacre bleu! Paparazzi.”
André yanked a rope on the shelter’s post and a bamboo shade unfurled and rolled to the sand. But not before she’d seen the small speedboat bobbing near the shore on a mocha-tinged wash of gold and copper.
Kira flattened on the sand, angry the world had intruded to catch her and André again. How long had they been out there?
André tossed his shirt at her. “Put this on.”
She shrugged into it while he stepped into his denim cutoffs. Even with the media drifting dangerously close he left them unbuttoned, seeming content to let them ride low on his lean hips.
He punched numbers into his mobile phone as he hurried her up the slope and into the concealing forest. “Step up the patrol. Paparazzi are offshore at my private beach.”
“Don’t they ever give up?” she asked, when they’d emerged from the forest and had started toward the house.
“No,” he said, giving her a pointed look. “Interesting that they came when we first made love, then again the night you first arrived here, and now.”
All times when they’d made love—or nearly. “It’s as if they know when we’re intimate.”
He released a short bark of laughter that sent a chill down her spine. “The same thought crossed my mind, ma chérie.”
“Do you believe someone is tipping them off?”
“Oui—and who among my trusted employees on this small island would betray me?”
She shook her head, having no idea. Then she caught the accusatory glare in his eyes and wanted to retch.
“My God, you can’t think that I’ve alerted the media?”
“Someone has.” He opened the door off the back terrace that led directly upstairs and motioned her to precede him.
“It wasn’t me,” she said, but he merely stared at her.
After the love they’d shared, after isolating her here on Petit St. Marc, he still believed her capable of the impossible. He continued to believe she’d betrayed him, instead of considering that a disgruntled employee had alerted the media.
“If I’d had any means of getting a call out I wouldn’t have risked my life rowing to that island today,” she said. “I’d have rung my solicitor straightaway and tried to find out who had betrayed me.”
He shrugged, as if dismissing that possibility. “You could have stowed a cellphone in your luggage.”
She jammed her fists at her sides because she truly wanted to cosh him for being so cynical. So arrogantly pig-headed. “I only had one mobile and you took it from me at the Chateau. My God, if you don’t believe me, have my room searched.”
“It’s already been done.”
She stepped back, shocked when she shouldn’t be surprised. Throughout her days at boarding school everything she’d done, said, or put on paper had been watched. Edouard’s orders. Because of his suspicions, shredding paper documents and eliminating electronic ones had become second nature to her—even destroying something as innocuous as jotting down a luncheon date with a friend.
But André’s invasion of her privacy had crushed the fragile emotions she held close to her heart. His ordered search of her belongings reminded her that she was a prisoner here. Like her years at boarding school, she was here because of a billionaire’s largesse. He didn’t trust her or want her.
“You didn’t find a mobile phone,” she said, the ice of cold reality stabbing her heart when he gave a curt nod. “Have you kept me under surveillance as well?”
His sensuous lips thinned, but his silence was answer enough.
“I’m tired. I need to rest,” she said, pushing past him.
Her only thought was fleeing to her room, putting a wall between them when she longed for a continent to divide them. Even then it wouldn’t be enough, for André would always be a part of her. Their child would be a constant reminder of what she’d loved. And lost.
She hurried up the stairs. Her feet felt as leaden as her heart, and tears threatened to cloud her vision.
Halfway down the hall her balance deserted her and she stumbled. She pitched forward and threw out her hands to catch herself. Strong arms caught her and swept her off her feet. She gasped, instantly flinging her arms around his neck.
Their eyes clashed. His unreadable. Hers no doubt windows to her soul, her heart.
André broke eye contact first, and the dismissal was another blow in a long line of them.
“Does it bother you to touch someone you distrust so much?” she asked as he carried her to her room, straining away from the welcoming warmth of his chest. The last thing she wanted was his false comfort.
“Oui.” He laid her on the bed, then stalked from the room.
Good! She didn’t want to be near him. Didn’t wish to be subject to his foul mood any longer. But before she could set aside her inner turmoil and will her tense limbs to relax, he returned with a carafe of cold water.
He poured some in a glass and handed it to her. “Drink. I’ve sent for a doctor.”
“That isn’t necessary.” She took the glass, careful not to touch the fingers that had given her such pleasure an hour before, refusing to look into his eyes and see cold accusation glinting there instead of passion.
“I say it is,” he said.
“And, as everyone knows, Monsieur Gauthier’s word is law on his island kingdom.”
She saluted him with her glass and stared at the wall, her pulse thrumming in time to his harsh indrawn breaths, his shadow looming over her like a dark specter. But she refused to be intimidated—refused to be cowed by him.
“The doctor will be here within the hour,” he said.
“Will you stay to oversee his examination?” she asked. “Or watch it through your surveillance cameras?”
“Neither,” he said, not denying that monitoring devices were in place, that at some point he had in fact watched her.
Without another word he crossed to the door and shut it with a demoralizing click.
Silence throbbed around her.
Kira closed her eyes, furious. Hurt. Torn by the conflicting emotions clawing for dominance in her heart. She hated him. She loved him.
And loving André Gauthier could destroy her.
After